


Early, Late or Just in Time

by ohmorninggloria



Category: The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: Child Death, Death, Gen, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4044838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmorninggloria/pseuds/ohmorninggloria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small reflective piece from the perspective of Death, before he met the Book Thief. Based on the quote “Sometimes I arrive too early. I rush, and some people cling longer to life than expected.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early, Late or Just in Time

**Author's Note:**

> Please be warned it is set in a battle scene, and does involve a young child dying. It also involves other slight aspects of war.

The rain was light, a small pattering of ghostly footprints on the ground, cold as ice. They fell silently on the grass, pittering and pattering. A dark figure, almost a silhouette in the fading light stood tall, the rain hitting him and running down his body in shallow streams. Before him lay a battleground with bodies littered across the field like fresh fallen leaves. The air smelt of fresh rain, the bodies not yet old enough to permeate the air with their smell. There were no survivors.  
That wasn’t the worst part of it though…

The shadowy man stepped forward; moving at a pace that showed he was in no hurry, a purpose to his steps as such not even God could hurry him. A ray of light, one of the last of the day offered a glimpse of his face. Pale skin, aged through years of life and wrinkles running deep with a wisp of bone white hair sparsely covering the skin. What appeared to stand out most though were his eyes, filled with such sorrow, such anger, such hate. They were the eyes of a man that has seen too much in his life, a person who has lived years too many, with small hints of love and sympathy, overshadowed by much darker emotions. It was only a glimpse however, a glimpse that no living man will ever see till the day he dies.

Death had almost reached his destination. What were once fresh fallen leaves were now human sized bodies, streaming with blood that flooded the grass, staining it red. The closest a man…no, a boy. He would have been no older than fifteen yet this sinister fate had befallen him. All at once, rays of sympathy and of injustice showed in his eyes. How might such a young boy have come to this fate? The man took a knee, crouching beside the boy slowly, his arms outstretching to catch the faint light hovering above the body. But the light shied away from his touch, refusing to give himself over to the supposed cold clammy hands of death. These were the hardest, the ones who clung to life longer than expected. Usually they were the young ones, full of life. 

Slowly is how it went. You had to get them to trust you, to let go. Fill their heads with promises of heaven and of no more pain. A bright warming light much preferable to the cold battlefield. And slowly, the young boy let go of life, flowing freely into Death’s arms. He cradled the boy softly, feeling the warmth emanating from him, such a pure soul in his arms. His lingering thoughts however, scared death, thoughts of fear and of tactics that overwhelmed him before his death. His last thought being that of aiming at the enemy, envisioning them as more horrible than they are. It was a sad last thought to see a boy having, to think it was so fast his mind didn’t even have time to flit back to his home, to his mother and father. It was all part of the job however, and Death rose slowly, holding the boy up as the ethereal spectre floated upwards to his rightful place.

He wasn’t able to take a breath before feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder, poking into him like a knife. He knew this pain all too well, and knew what to expect when he looked across the field. A few metres away lay a body, familiar to the boys but with an added few years. However, this body had a harsh red glow emitting from it, sending out a shower of sparks that fizzled on the ground, creating an evil hiss. These ones you had to get over and done with quickly. They were the ones that Death found a pleasure to send beneath. Get them done quickly, that’s what you had to do. Don’t give them a chance to pull you in and to make you feel the hate they feel. He approached cautiously, dodging and weaving the bright sparks to finally stand beside the body. Even though it was just a spectre, the rage locked up inside of it could easily be seen. The shape was writhing as if in agony, but really it was anger. Reach down, don’t let them have any leeway at all when extracting their spirit. 

Clawing, he struggled to hold the spectre in his grip and as soon as he touched the harsh redness an overwhelming anger came over him and he stumbled back, pushing the feeling away. He pushed the body toward the ground roughly; taking no care with it like he had with the boy. Finally, the spectre fell through the ground, being absorbed to the deepest pit of hell. Standing up, Death went about his way, brushing himself off and neatly brushing off his suit. He continued to release the bodies and time went on. Over a hundred spirits got released by him that day, and a hundred more will be, and a thousand more. Death is always working, always watching and knowing. Years have gone by and years still have yet to come. He tries not to rush, but always ends up arriving too early, but then sometimes just sometimes people cling to life longer than expected. It would be years until he met the Book Thief, but his time would come.


End file.
